Sick Day
by alyxpoe
Summary: A little fluffy short from DI Lestrade's POV. 1st person POV. Sherlock/John. Greg/Mycroft.


**Sick Day**

_**A short bit of fluff for my friend lobstergirl, who is feeling under the weather. Get well soon!**_

* * *

"Sherlock, will you just _go home_." I say as I scratch at the whiskers on my chin a little harder than I had intended. My watch told me fifteen minutes ago that it was half-past a monkey's arse o'clock and I've had about enough. The arrogant bastard looks at me like I've suddenly sprouted a second head.

"But John's not home." Sherlock mumbles to me as he turns on the spot so that ridiculous coat spins out around him. I can't stop myself from looking. It really is an effective move and after all, I am only human.

And John took an emergency shift over at Bart's A&E about three-quarters into this case, oh, about what? three million hours ago. I don't know at this point because I do believe my entire bloodstream has been replaced by caffeine from all the vile coffee Donovan has been bringing me all day. So, yeah, I think I'm safe.

"Lestrade."

Well, mostly anyway. The consulting git is now narrowing his eyes at me.

"Give it up, _laddie_," I growl, meeting him halfway. "You may have looks but you spoil it with your mouth and I don't have John's unending reserves of patience." Hardly. _Emergency shift_ my arse. Granted, the case had been a horrible slog, both physically and emotionally, but now it is solved and I am exhausted.

Of course the consulting baby now goes into _I'm going to deduce the hell out of you_ mode. I hold up one hand to stem the tantrummy tirade before it even begins. I can't take anymore today. And that is the only reason I'll ever give for allowing him for turning him loose on the child abusing kidnapper from today.

Yep.

"No, Sherlock, not now. _Go home_." All this time and the idiot can't tell when I have had enough?

After a minute where he's either studying my nose hairs or the way my tie is knotted or what the hell ever…he finally gets that orgasmic expression of epiphany on his face and I can think is _shit, _now_ what?_ The prick laughs at me.

"You'll see when you get home." I shake my head and stand up to grab my coat. Spring is just Mother Nature's way of showing that she can be more indecisive as ever and it is freezing out there at this time of night.

Somehow that reminds me of my ex-wife.

I start out the door only to be blocked by six feet nothing of lean irritation. "What?" I ask, finally exasperated.

He smirks at me and somehow manages to mumble something that sounds like chicken soup and spins around on his heels dramatically at the same time. I can actually hear my eyeballs rolling in my skull.

Thing is, I love the arrogant prick like a son; he knows it, too. It's been a wild ride since he first appeared on one of my earliest crime scenes. I will always stand by the words I said to that forlorn force-retired solider all those years ago. Sometimes I want to hug John and other times all I can think is _poor sod_.

Sherlock fiddles with his hair and the titanium band on his finger catches the light from the ceiling before he finally turns and flounces off down the corridor. At least at this hour, Dimmock has gone home, too. For all I care, he can go hang out down in the file room with some cold cases. As long as I can just get out of here for a few hours.

I slide into my car and my mobile jangles its new text alert. It is a text from Mrs. Hudson telling me she has something for me to pick up before I go home. Does that woman ever sleep? Probably not, not with the genius and his experiments upstairs, of course now…I shake off that thought. Someone really ought to give that woman a medal. That's a good idea, need to talk to…

The phone is insistent tonight. I send back an answer to her text and then throw the thing into the passenger seat. The parking garage is virtually empty so it takes no time at all to get to the road. I fight a yawn and put my foot down.

It turns out that Mrs. Hudson has somehow magically produced an enormous crock of homemade chicken soup at this time of night, even though she still looks half asleep with her pink nightie poking through the worn lace of the collar of her dressing gown. I give her my best _nice coppe_r smile and she cuffs me on the arm then hugs me warmly. If I'm the paternal babysitter of Sherlock then she is most definitely the maternal one, though I have always felt there is more to that lady than meets the eye.

I thank her and head back out, totally not missing the shaggy head of curls at the top of the steps. _How the hell did he get here that quickly_?

Some things are better left unknown and they all involve people named Holmes.

I finally get home and go in through the side door so I can leave my filthy footwear in the mudroom. I hang up my coat and grab the crock of soup that is still wonderfully warm against my hands that have been so cold all day. It really smells delicious.

I wander into the kitchen, stopping to note that there is a fire burning in the lounge. I set the crock on the table and wash my hands before carrying two bowls, two spoons and a ladle to the table. On the bench is a fresh loaf of crusty bread; in the fridge is a spread I made consisting of garlic, butter and other spices. It will go perfectly with the soup, but I need to know if I'm dining alone, so I go into the sitting room where I am greeted with a pathetic sight.

Mycroft Holmes in all his glory is stretched out on the brown leather sofa. His hair is messy, his pajamas are wrinkled and his nose is red. He gives me a weak smile as I enter the room that ends in a wet cough.

I do believe England is going to fall.

Mycroft Holmes is sick.

Suddenly, it dawns on me. Baby Holmes knew it and instead of telling me, woke up his not-landlady and sent me over there to get the soup. I'm not sure if that means he thinks I'm incapable of looking after a sick person or if it was meant to be a kind gesture towards me and or his brother.

Have to ask John, he speaks fluent Sherlockese.

In the meantime, Mycroft looks terrible. "Fever?" I ask.

"A little bit. John stopped by a bit ago and left me some medication. It will be down a bit in…in a while."

My god. He really is sick. I kneel down beside the couch and place the back of my hand on his head. "You do know you just used the same word in three separate sentences."

He doesn't answer but gives me a scowl that looks so much like his brother's from earlier that I can't help but laugh. Of course, it could also be exhaustion.

"Don't worry, we have the next three days off." Mycroft mutters into the tissue he is holding up to his nose.

I just sigh. I lost that battle two years ago.

I give him a kiss on the forehead and head back out to the kitchen to find the television trays I know he abhors. Might as well take advantage of this head cold! I snicker.

"Gregory, I'll come in…"

I stop in my tracks and turn around to push his posh arse right back onto the couch.

"Nope. If you are so sick that _John_ came to see you then you can park it right there, mister." Underneath my hand, I can feel the way he is trembling slightly. He looks up at me (and isn't that a rare occasion) and his blue eyes are glassy. "Yep. Food then bed."

Mycroft nods.

I finally gather everything up and it takes me no time before I have the soup dished up, a couple chunks of the bread slathered with the garlic spread and a beer for myself, and a glass of water for Mycroft.

A glass of water that Mycroft is staring at like he has never seen it before. Good Lord. Save me from the ominous glares of Holmeses and grant me the serenity…oh hell.

Mycroft picks up the glass and is staring at the ice bobbing about.

"Just drink it." I grumble as a click 'play' on the Blu-Ray remote. _Star Wars_ begins and I sit back enough to enjoy the surround sound.

Mycroft is still staring at the glass. You've got to be kidding me. I reach over and take it away from him, sloshing a bit of the cold water on his hand. He looks over at me, puzzled. This is worse than I thought.

Before I can say anything, he swings his attention to the television. "This isn't the one with that bloody creature with the speech impediment is it?"

I laugh. "That is the funniest thing that I've ever heard come out of your mouth."

He scowls at me. Maybe I shouldn't laugh. Really, though, how often do I get the chance? I don't say anything else and he finally turns toward his soup. After two bites, he sits back against the couch and pulls his legs up. I sigh and do the manly thing in order to finally get some food into my system: I upturn the bowl and drink the remainder of my soup, which to my credit, really isn't all that much.

Mycroft stares at me some more. "You are dazzling."

What? I have a feeling the slurping noise was probably uncalled for, but its time I get some of my own in return. I push my tray out of the way and drain the beer, then push his tray back and turn off the television.

"Bed time."I say and pull him up by the arms. He comes right along as I lead him to the bedroom and install him between the covers, first removing his maroon slippers. I give him a short impromptu foot massage and he sighs then curls onto his side. I promised him a long time ago that I would never call what he is doing to that pillow _cuddling_.

But it is, seriously.

Mycroft's eyes slip closed, his face goes slack and he is somewhere in dreamland signing multiple copies of whatever classified documents you would need in dreamland. I have a feeling there must be a lot of them.

I move into the bathroom and take a quick shower after getting a whiff of myself. It's a wonder Mycroft didn't gag. Good thing his sinuses are all blocked. I reenter the bedroom and look at the bureau. Pyjamas? Forget it. Too tired.

I watch Mycroft for a few moments and find myself completely besotted by his little sleepy snuffles. When I realize I'm watching the British Government whimper and kick like a puppy I rush out into the corridor and back down to the sitting room for my mobile. The cooler air reminds me that I'm still starkers so I make my text message quick.

_What did you give him?_

I can almost hear Sherlock's annoyance.

_John says pseudoephedrine. Leave us alone, we are busy._

I snort and consider sending a volley of messages into cyberspace just to interrupt them, but the thought of what they are doing and that poor, sweet Mrs. Hudson downstairs sleeping makes me stop. After all, the chicken soup was delicious.

I bank the fire, close the grill and finally drag my sorry carcass to bed. I'll deal with the mess later; since I put the crock in the fridge earlier, there's no good reason to go back in the kitchen. I may not be at the Yard for the next three days, but that doesn't mean I won't be at someone's beck and call, I think as I curl up behind Mycroft. The trembling in his extremities slowly lessens and he pushes up against me.

Yeah, that beck and call stuff? It's all worth it.


End file.
